The Fiend's Assault
Bernsi's largest church. Polbern Cathedral.
It wasn't Sunday, and it was early morning, so the chapel was nearly deserted. The only sign of life was a woman sitting on the pew closest to the altar, her hands clasped in prayer toward the towering silver cross standing there.
Light streamed in through the colorful stained-glass windows high on the vaulted ceiling, mingling with drifting motes of dust. The chapel seemed steeped in silence and peace.
But it didn't last long.
Bang! Both doors to the chapel flew open.
A beady-eyed man glanced around warily before striding boldly toward the altar. He wore a silk doublet, tight-fitting leggings, and pointed-toed shoes. A lavish velvet cloak draped over him like a flowing shadow.
Even after spotting the praying woman, he made no effort to muffle his footsteps. Instead, he glared at the silver cross on the altar and stomped even louder.
"This place is always a sight to behold."
His voice dripped with irritation and mockery. It echoed through the chapel, as if addressed to no one in particular, before fading away.
The man plopped down on the pew beside the woman. Every movement reeked of frustration.
"How long are you going to keep up that pathetic act? As if you even have any faith."
"I may lack faith, but belief is necessary."
The woman opened her eyes. Her attire was that of any ordinary Bernsi housewife, but there was an aristocratic air to her features. Her brown eyes drifted not to the man beside her, but to the dust motes floating by the window.
"You've heard the news, I assume?"
"Baris is dead."
"Any suspects?"
"It's a method I've never seen before. We scoured the mansion and questioned everyone around, but no one saw anyone who could be the culprit."
"And the handwriting on the parchment note? Could that Goethe whelp be involved?"
"We're investigating. Nothing concrete yet."
"Impressive."
"And..."
"And?"
"One of our swordsmen seems to have been taken by the Goetes."
"Certain?"
"Someone in the slums saw him being dragged away, and the man hauling him was a soldier who guarded the Goethe heir. The gate guards' testimonies say they headed toward Goethe Manor."
"......"
The chapel's silence grew oppressively heavy. The man fell quiet, and the woman tightened her grip on her clasped hands.
"Kill him."
His voice was ice-cold and resolute.
"But he has a daughter."
"Kill him. Make it certain."
"Marquis. Please reconsider..."
"Baisman."
The marquis seized her chin.
"No, Violet. If I say kill, you kill."
He forced a kiss on her. She accepted it expressionlessly, without closing her eyes.
"You just do as I say. Worship if I command it, bark if I order it. Then you'll get what you want."
"......Understood."
"Be grateful I have a sense of chivalry. Otherwise, every time you nitpick my words, I'd strip you bare and take you right in front of the priests."
"Yes."
She nodded without averting her gaze. Dissatisfied with her expression, the marquis forcibly tugged up the corner of her mouth.
"Smile. Before I rip it off."
She raised the corners of her mouth unnaturally.
"Once this is over, I'll take you as my concubine. Then you can play madam in a grand mansion in this city, instead of pimp. Of course, you can shelter your poor comrades too. If that's what you want, do it right. Understood, witch of the revolutionaries?"
"......Yes. But, Marquis, before that—may I ask one thing?"
She nodded and continued, ignoring his curses.
"Ask."
"Can we truly secure the city's autonomy?"
"Have my words ever failed?"
"......No."
"Then stop babbling and give your future husband a proper farewell kiss."
With a dry expression, she kissed his cheek. Her lips, untouched by food or drink, were rough.
"Stone-cold bitch."
The marquis shoved her away and stormed out of the chapel. Her praying hands were now clenched into fists. In the still air of the chapel, her hair whipped wildly.
"Pallichi."
"Yes, Commissioner."
A figure emerged from behind a pillar in the chapel. A man in a shabby cloak, sword at his side.
"Drop the 'commissioner' title. Violet is enough."
"It's stuck in my mouth now, Commissioner."
He replied lightly.
"You heard the marquis?"
"Handle it as ordered?"
"No. Rescue first. But if not... make it painless."
The man nodded at her words.
"Is that true?"
"From what I saw, at least."
"Huh."
The captain of Goethe Manor's guards was playing cards with Carlson. They were stationed here to prevent an assassination attempt on their captive swordsman. Or so the captain thought. Isaac's secret order to Carlson had been to capture the assassin alive.
"D-deal, you bastards... teeth or balls... you fucking... shits... won't get... shit... from me..."
Groaning in agony, he strained to prove his unbroken spirit despite his exhaustion. They'd pulled all ten fingernails, yet he revealed nothing about Baisman's identity or the marquis's schemes. Loyalty or fear—it was impossible to tell.
"Tch, the bastard doesn't even tire."
The captain clicked his tongue at the swordsman.
"So, according to you, young master Isaac—at twelve years old—stayed calm amid dozens of hellhounds, slew one, and boosted the soldiers' morale... Fuck, this hand's ruined."
The captain flipped cards one by one before tossing them away.
"Gonna lose this round. You didn't secretly become a bard, did you? Your exaggerations rival those con artists."
"......"
"Ahem."
As Carlson stared, the captain cleared his throat awkwardly.
"It's true, isn't it? The way you tell it, young master Isaac sounds like the hero from some grandma's bedtime tale."
"You were the one praising his swordsmanship in the training yard."
"Swinging wooden swords in sparring is worlds apart from facing massive beasts with live steel."
"Believe what you want. No reason for me to lie now."
"Fair enough."
Carlson shuffled and laid out three cards, dealing two to each.
"This takes me back to Winterband. Some weeks felt like a day, others a day dragged like a week."
"......Yeah."
Carlson understood. War, death, pain, cold—they shredded any sense of time.
"You've changed a lot since then."
"Me?"
"Don't you see? You talk a ton now. Especially about young master Isaac."
"Can't help it—always around him. Looks like I win this one."
Carlson revealed his two cards and pushed three stacks of ten coins each to the table's center—everything he had.
The captain grinned.
"Whoa, jumping the gun?"
The captain jingled his pouch and matched the bet exactly, then revealed his two cards. Ornate designs, numbers matching the center pair—the highest hand in this betting game.
Carlson's eyes turned cold.
"Hey? Why the glare? You shuffled and dealt. I don't pull seconds."
Seeing Carlson's icy expression, the captain protested innocently. Then Carlson gripped the scabbard against the stone wall.
"Y-you serious? Over thirty coins?"
The captain looked flustered.
"If you're short, just say—Guh!"
The guard's attempt to calm Carlson cut off. Carlson had finally drawn his blade and swung.
Clang!
"Carlson, have you lost your—!?"
Clatter!
Metal shards scattered across the stone floor. A dagger chunk flew precisely under the torch bracket.
The captain felt cold sweat bead on his forehead. Without Carlson's block, that blade would've embedded in his brow or throat.
"He's here."
Carlson said, eyes gleaming. Realizing at last, the captain drew his shortsword.
A stranger stood at the prison entrance. Even Carlson hadn't sensed his approach. A true expert.
Over ten paces away, the fiend was cloaked head to toe. In each hand, a falchion with a curved blade and a dagger.
Kiiiiiik—
He scraped the falchion along the stone wall, methodically slicing torch handles from entrance to bracket. The poles sheared off cleanly on contact. Flames died as oil-soaked cloths severed, plunging areas into darkness.
When five paces remained.
Tat-tat-tat—
The fiend charged Carlson and the captain.
Ka-clang!Clang—!
The captain blocked the falchion with his shortsword but flew back. It felt like slamming bare into rock.
Simultaneously, Carlson's swing met the fiend's dagger. The fiend swung his falchion wide again.
Whoosh—
Another torch snuffed out.
Kaang!Whoosh—
As the fiend whirled both weapons, darkness swallowed everything.
Kang—Clang—
Blade flashes sparked in the gloom.
The captain froze, unable to act. Amid the unseen tangle of Carlson and the fiend, he instinctively knew this fight transcended normal bounds.
Winterband had taught him: mana users emitted sharp waves, like sandpaper on skin.
No place for a mortal like him among these monsters. If only he could see...
He clutched his whistle, hesitating. Sound it, and the fiend would slit his throat. Rally guards? The narrow passage trapped them with the fiend and Carlson.
Kiiiing!
Eerie blade shrieks, clashing sparks. Swords whipped relentlessly; the captain doubted he could dodge.
No words, no breath changes—just frantic swordplay. Anxiety mounted. If Carlson fell, he'd follow.
In his paralysis, he sensed another presence.
"Carlson! Carlson! What the hell—putting out all the lights?!"
Isaac appeared with a lantern.
"Assassin! Get out and call for—"
Thud!
Mid-shout, a dull impact flashed the captain's vision. The fiend's falchion flat struck him unconscious.
"He's coming your way!"
Carlson yelled. Sensing delay cost him, the fiend turned and charged Isaac.
The fiend planned to take Isaac hostage. The boy's demeanor screamed nobility.
Trade him and the captive swordsman—mission complete.
Of course, he didn't know it played into Isaac's hands.
"......!?"
Time slowed for the fiend. One cause: danger heightened senses, buying time to react.
In that instant, the boy's eyes glowed yellow. Gold-like, but feral.
Gooseflesh prickled his arms. Not fear—instinct.
Chill gripped him. Imagination? No, his body slowed.
The boy drew his sword fluidly, unpanicked, prepared.
"......!"
Trap. He unleashed aura. His falchion gleamed bluish.
No mercy now.
Klang—!
Aura-clad blade met Isaac's. Thunderous clash—Isaac's sword snapped.
But time bought.
As the fiend focused on Isaac, Carlson's scabbard cracked his skull.
Thump—
The fiend collapsed.